


Five Kisses

by kianspo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, First Time, Humor, M/M, Merlin is a dear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Merlin kisses him, completely out of the blue, Arthur is not at all concerned. He just doesn't know what he's in for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [Footloose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Footloose/pseuds/Footloose) for the beta.
> 
> This is a canon-set snippet, becoming an AU after the end of s3.

\--

The first time Merlin kisses him, completely out of the blue, Arthur is not at all concerned. Well, maybe a little bit. He waits patiently for it to be over, idly wondering where on earth Merlin has learned to do things quite so filthy with his tongue. Arthur might be taking mental notes, not that he’d ever tell.

When they break apart, he asks, “Have you been on the cider again?”

Because he wouldn’t put it past Merlin, even though nothing on earth, not even the strongest alcohol, could fully explain all the peculiar quirks and unfathomable oddities that are _Merlin_.

“Nope.” Merlin grins at him, bright and a little bit shy. Or maybe it’s coyness masquerading as due embarrassment.

“Right.” He waits for a moment longer, but as Merlin shows no signs of further improprieties coming in the nearest future, Arthur clears his throat. “Have you polished my armour?”

“Um,” Merlin says eloquently, “about that.”

Arthur sighs. “You really are the worst manservant ever, aren’t you?”

To his horror, instead of cuffing Merlin on the head, his hand dives into the shock of surprisingly rich, unruly hair and curls around the nape. Merlin grins sweetly, eyes downcast, and fiddles with Arthur’s collar, probably twisting it more out of place than it was before. He doesn’t kiss Arthur again, though.

“I’ll get right on it, Sire.”

“See that you do,” Arthur says, strangely put-upon.

Merlin glances up at him briefly, eyes crinkling. He pecks Arthur on the cheek quickly and runs off, mumbling something about prattish princes and overworked servants.

Arthur stares after him for a long while. He’s not confused at all.

 

\--

The second time Merlin kisses him, he really is drunk. Arthur is a little bit appalled, considering he has merely graciously allowed Merlin to finish the contents of his wineglass. On the other hand, Arthur didn’t have the forethought to share his meal with Merlin. Thinking back about the day they had, it occurs to Arthur that it was entirely possible that Merlin hadn’t had any food since breakfast. Assuming he _had_ breakfast.

He shouldn’t be feeling any guilt anyway, because Merlin is a servant and it’s not Arthur’s fault. But even if Arthur’s conscience tries to give him a few pangs, it’s very hard to concentrate on that while Merlin’s lips are warm and wet against his own.

“You’re a prat and I hate you,” Merlin purrs, sucking on Arthur’s bottom lip with intent as he shifts in Arthur’s lap, seeking a more comfortable position. “Hate you.” Merlin’s tongue licks teasingly inside, drunk and shameless. “Really a lot.”

“Okay?” Arthur frowns, hands gripping Merlin’s waist automatically to steady him.

Merlin makes a frustrated noise, captures Arthur’s tongue and starts sucking.

Arthur really should put an end to this, because Merlin might be generally touched in the head as a rule, but he’s also _drunk_ right now, and there’s no way this doesn’t constitute taking advantage. This nonsense should stop immediately.

The next thing Arthur knows, Merlin is half-sprawled on the table in front of him, Arthur’s face buried in his neck, teeth flirting with the pulse point, and Merlin is moaning, his hips jerking up in a way that is driving Arthur mad.

“No,” Arthur breathes, trying to divorce himself from it all. “ _Fuck_ , Merlin. Get a bloody grip.”

Which of course helps things not at all.

It is, in fact, pure madness. Merlin is gaunt and bony and nothing _at all_ that Arthur likes. Dumping him on the bed – _alone_ – shouldn’t be nearly half as difficult.

In the morning, Merlin looks horrified and then sheepish, and so obviously suffering from a monster hangover that Arthur wants to strangle him really badly, but doesn’t have the heart to.

He takes perverse pleasure in making Merlin eat his breakfast, even though Merlin looks green at the very idea of food. In the end, Arthur holds Merlin down, grabs him by the nose, and pours half a goblet of ale down his throat, ignoring Merlin’s spluttering. It takes a few minutes for the hair of the dog to kick in, and then Merlin blinks in surprise, touching his forehead in wary disbelief, before looking up at Arthur and smiling in a way that makes Arthur’s stomach flip.

He sends Merlin to the stables for an entire day and bites back a howl when Merlin just murmurs, “Prat” almost tenderly before taking off.

 

\--

The third time is deep into the Midwinter Festival, when everyone is too drunk to be scared of the Wild Hunt anymore. No one takes their ugly masks off, though, because who’d turn down the opportunity to have fun when no punishment will be forthcoming?

Drunk on his anonymity alone (and on the generous helpings of mead), Arthur stumbles across the castle, soaked in the smell of evergreens, the peculiar scent tickling his nose, and he didn’t even know they had so many pines and spruces around Camelot. Everywhere masks are laughing and dancing in the bright glimmer of torches and candles. Arthur laughs for no reason at all, and the sound carries.

Suddenly someone grabs his wrist and pulls him into a dark, secluded alcove, and Arthur can’t see a thing, but isn’t alarmed at all. Before he can draw a breath, someone kisses his grinning mouth, long fingers cradling his jaw as lips are sealed over his and everything is melting hot and sweet like honey.

Arthur groans into it, clutching at whoever it is, pulling them closer. There’s an answering groan there, and he’s pinned to the wall, lips pressing, sliding, constantly moving, and everything’s good, but the next thing is better, and Arthur _wants_ so much he might explode. He grabs his assailant by the head – furry hat, one of the ‘demons’ then – and _pulls_ , thrusting his tongue into the stranger’s mouth, too eager and sloppy, and so intoxicatingly _free_ with the bloody masks on. Who cares about the performance or finesse when Arthur can just take what he wants, and _gods_ , he wants this, this sweet, soft mouth that gasps as Arthur bites into it, quivers as Arthur sucks on the full, lush lips, wet and warm and perfect.

Normally, he’d be ripping off clothes by now, but he’s never felt like this, and the kiss – _the bloody kiss_ – is somehow everything and yet not enough at the same time, and Arthur never, never wants it to end. ‘ _I want you_ ,’ he pushes into it. ‘ _Want this, want you, want, want, want, want, WANT DON’T EVER STOP_.’ His jaw is aching, and he’s the one being the bully now, he’s always been the bully, and he revels in it, growling in triumph as he traps his hunter-turned-prey in the corner and takes his mouth as though staking a claim on it, hand wrapped around the long, defenceless throat, capturing the frantic beat of pulse beneath his fingers.

Suddenly there’s light everywhere, loud voices fill his ears, obnoxious, laughing, and whistling. Hands grab at him, and he’s jerked back, away from the drugging pull of the kiss and into the crowd.

Arthur growls, but it’s swallowed by the laughter and all the taunting, and he struggles to rein it in. He tries to look past them to see his partner, but there are people everywhere, chanting for him to make a guess. Arthur forces a smile and shakes his head.

With an uprise of hooting and whistles, a girl is pushed into his arms. Even with the mask on, Arthur can see that she’s lovely, petite and curvy, with a gorgeous veil of blond hair streaming down her back. She’s flushed adorably and her grin is shy, but flirty.

There’s no way, Arthur knows, no way he’s just been kissing this girl, no matter what the crowd insists. He stares at her cute little mouth, and thinks that a few minutes ago he wouldn’t have minded being kissed by her at all, but all he feels now is disappointment as though they offered him something way too bland for his (rather spoilt) palate.

He takes the girl’s hand and kisses it, provoking a sweet smile from her and a round of applause from the spectators. He has to be magnanimous. Arthur is under no illusion that he’s not recognised, mask or no, and giving this sweet girl the bragging rights of having snogged the prince seems like a small thing, a kindness he can easily afford.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the sight of Merlin sneaking out into a less crowded gallery, his shoulders drooped, the nape of his neck black with smudged soot.

Arthur rubs his fingers absently and when he looks down, his palm is black as if he tried to climb up a chimney.

 

\--

The fourth time it happens is no fun at all.

Merlin is lying beside the campfire, shivering under every possible fur and blanket they could find. He’s pale as death, his skin clammy, with a sickening, greenish tint to it; there are huge black circles under eyes that he’s struggling to keep open, and his lips are white.

Arthur has been avoiding this for as long as he could, but now that he can’t delay any longer, he finds he can’t leave without this one small indulgence.

“You look disgusting,” he tells Merlin, kneeling down beside him.

Merlin’s lips part. “Thanks.”

Arthur has been here once before, and the thought is no consolation at all, because this isn’t _before_ and everything is so fucking bleak now. If only it was as simple as bringing some bloody flower from some bloody cave stuffed with monsters.

But it’s not, and Arthur’s heart is a cold, vengeful block of ice, beating him in the chest from the inside, as though he isn’t already hurting all over.

Merlin’s eyes slide closed, expression falters as he slips into unconsciousness. Arthur is so angry, he wants to yell at him and smack him, but the desperate, tiny part of him wants to cry, and it’s like a cutting jolt of heat in his frozen system, shocking and painful and so damn unfair.

Arthur pulls his glove off and runs his shaking fingers through Merlin’s sweat soaked hair. It’s revolting and dirty, and Arthur can’t take his hand away, not at once, has to draw gentle circles and soothing spirals. He’s not easily scared, never has been, but suddenly he’s terrified of letting go, because what if this is the last time?

“Sire,” Leon’s voice comes from behind him, from where all of his most trusted knights are valiantly trying to pretend this isn’t happening and they aren’t seeing what they’re seeing. “It’s time.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, his throat tightening.

He leans over and presses his lips to Merlin’s parted ones. They are colourless, painfully dry, and thin as an old parchment. Arthur kisses them anyway, gentle and a little petulant, because he’s just discovered he doesn’t _care_ , and it’s more frightening than the stupid curse and the entirety of the undead army.

“Let’s go,” he snaps, pulling himself up to his feet abruptly, marching off to his horse without looking back once.

“Sire,” Leon says, sounding torn between shocked and apologetic.

Arthur tugs at the reins impatiently and glares at him. “What?”

But Leon looks away, they all do, and Arthur rubs his face angrily as he digs his heels into the horse’s sides.

His hand comes off wet, and it hasn’t been raining.

 

\--

The fifth time happens on the day when Arthur was supposed to get married.

Arthur is on the top of the northern tower, sitting on the sunlit steps leading up to the parapet, his ceremonial, ancient, incredibly ugly crown glinting an annoying copper shade against the noble grey of the stone where it lies beside him.

He doesn’t look up as Merlin approaches, and Merlin doesn’t say anything. He sits down next to Arthur, shoulders brushing carelessly in scandalous familiarity and complete lack of respect for the difference between their stations.

“She’s a girl, Arthur,” Merlin says eventually. “A girl can change her mind.”

Arthur nods, squinting at the distant horizon. “I’m not upset.”

Merlin glances at him. “Why not?”

Arthur shrugs. “I’m still trying to figure out how we came to the point where, you know. The wedding.”

“Ah.”

“It’s just – I remember there were smiles? And teasing? But all this – how did this happen? I never actually wanted... that is, I don’t think...”

“ _I_ think you should be very grateful she can’t hear you right now.”

Arthur glances at him sideways. “I don’t think Gwen would marry me out of spite if she couldn’t out of – whatever was supposed to be going on between us.”

Merlin snorts. “No, I don’t think so, either.”

Once his eyes are fixed on Merlin, Arthur finds he doesn’t really want to look away, so he half-turns toward him to see him better.

Merlin’s wearing that new coat that Arthur had personally picked for him, and it took nothing short of a miracle to make him stand still long enough for it to be fitted. His hair is hopeless as usual, his cheekbones are cutting the stark clarity of the sun beams, making them shimmer, framing his face in light. His eyes are bright, a deeper blue than they used to be, and Arthur wonders vaguely how much longer it will take for them to attain that unnatural indigo colour that would give Merlin away before he has a chance to open his mouth and utter a single spell.

Then, of course, they’d turn golden.

“What?” Merlin squirms, not turning toward him, but sensing the scrutiny.

“I haven’t even yelled at you properly for, you know, the other thing.”

Merlin squirms some more. “Do you have to?”

Arthur deliberates. “No,” he says at last. “But you might find yourself wearing a pointy hat at some point.”

“Arthur. _No_. Anything but that.”

“What was that? Did I just hear you say: ‘ _Why, yes, Your Majesty. Anything for you, just say the word_?’”

“I’m beginning to feel seriously worried about you.”

“Shut up, Merlin. Your insolence has to stop. People say I’m far too lenient with you.”

“Oh yeah?” Merlin is grinning. “What else do they say?”

“That my wedding would break more than one heart. That one of them is yours.”

Merlin shrugs, his grin fading. “People will say anything.”

“That, unfortunately, is very true.”

They sit in silence for a while. Arthur doesn’t know he’s waiting it out until Merlin sneaks a wary glance at him from under his lashes and blushes at the sight of what Arthur suspects is a horribly smug, shit-eating grin.

“I have to go.” Merlin jumps to his feet.

Arthur grabs his wrist and pulls him back down quickly, before Merlin realises what’s happening. “No, you don’t.”

“Arthur,” Merlin whimpers plaintively, fidgeting as Arthur traps him between himself and the parapet wall.

“Merlin,” Arthur mocks, his heart racing. He hasn’t drunk a single drop of wine today, but he feels drugged and giddy.

Merlin stills, waiting, eyes glued to Arthur’s lips. “What would people say?” he breathes out, too shaky to be reproachful.

Arthur smirks. “I don’t give a damn.”

Merlin swallows, catches Arthur’s eye, and moans softly. “Sod it.” His hand wraps around the back of Arthur’s neck, and pulls down, until he captures Arthur’s lips with his own.

The kiss isn’t deep, but excruciatingly gentle, slow – as they take their time, yielding politely to one another, taking turns to savour, to caress, and explore. Arthur licks Merlin’s mouth open with heart-seizing tenderness, fingers treading through the perpetually untamed hair, curling and pulling softly. Jolts of unmitigated pleasure run through him as Merlin moans, shamelessly asking for more of the same, angling his jaw to take Arthur deeper, opening up for him as though he’s been waiting all his life to do that for Arthur – and only for Arthur. The taste of him melts on Arthur’s tongue, and Arthur presses in for more, easily addicted, chases the flavour across the roof of Merlin’s mouth, sucks it off the wanton cupid’s bow of his upper lip that has been testing Arthur’s control for all eternity, tantalizing, seductive, and insolent as its owner.

They kiss until Arthur’s lips begin to tingle, until Merlin’s mouth looks cherry-red and absolutely obscene. Arthur pulls back, staring at him, and this time he doesn’t want to cool down, to pretend it never happened. He doesn’t want to stop there.

“I never actually found you a new manservant,” Merlin murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth as if he can’t help himself.

Arthur sighs, his ribs hurting. “Of course you didn’t.”

A slow smile crawls onto Merlin’s lips. “Which means no one moved your things from your old room. Which will probably just be your room again. Funny how that works.”

It’s not funny, not really, but Arthur couldn’t care less. “You’ll stay?” he breathes out in wonder.

He’s so used to Merlin disappearing on him, denying everything the moment it was over, that it’s a hard concept to grasp – much harder, in fact, than even Merlin’s magic.

Merlin laughs, bright and a bit sheepish. “I’ll stay.”

Arthur grins helplessly, clasping his hand.

 

\--

The next morning (it’s really closer to midday) when Arthur wakes up, he sincerely regrets everything, because Merlin smacks his lips, sprawls all over the bed like a drunk octopus, and hogs the covers. His hair is in Arthur’s face, his hipbones are fucking sharp, and he isn’t at all as lightweight as he looks.

Arthur debates the merits of simply shoving him off the bed, when he realises Merlin is awake and staring at him.

“What are you grinning about?” Merlin asks curiously, eyes soft with sleep.

Arthur sighs, because he _is_ grinning, gods help him, and he doesn’t think he can stop.

He doesn’t want to admit as much, though, so he doesn’t answer, opting to kiss Merlin good morning instead. Retrospectively, it’s a fair trade, and if Arthur had lost his meticulous count of the kisses at some point during the night before, distracted by everything that was going on and overwhelmed by the sheer number, he isn’t too upset about it, because it’s kind of all right, too.


End file.
